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I was a mess. Johnny and Dallas were gone. I knew they were gone. But after all this time, I still couldn’t get that through my skull.
It had been 2 years since everything happened. 2 years of rotting in bed and skipping school. 2 years of pretending with all I had that they were still with us.
2 years.
2 years.
I couldn't take it anymore. I was sure Soda and Darry were sick of me like this --- what kind of guy wastes away for two years over his friends dying? I was shocked Soda hasn't gone back to his old room by now; I was sure he didn’t exactly like getting woken up to me crying nearly every night. Sometimes I would nearly puke from how debilitating everything is --- even though I barely ate --- but I was so used to it that I could just swallow it back down.
I felt sick. Soda and Darry were both out at work. I couldn't ask for help. I wanted to be able to breathe again. I couldn't breathe since that day. Every time I felt myself moving on, I remembered the fountain, the church, the fire, the hospital, everything. I heard the echoes of the guns that ended Dallas' life. I was almost as old as he was when he died. He would be 18 by now. Old enough to run away and start something new. The thought made me sicker and sicker every second.
“Don't think," I repeated, echoing how I acted the night Johnny died. "Don't think about how Johnny would've been able to get away from his parents today." Great timing. That day would've been Johnny's 18th. March always felt bittersweet to me, but it was worse now. Now I didn't have Johnny to get me through.
I kept thinking, "Don't remember him." And God, I wished it was that easy. I could still hear their voices if I was quiet for too long. I still saw their faces in my dreams. I still saw them in the corner of my eye. They won't leave me alone. I wasn't like this with Mom and Dad, not at all. I could breathe when they died. I wasn't hearing them years after they died. I didn’t believe in the paranormal, but if they weren't haunting me, I don't know why this is so difficult for me.
I loved Johnny like I loved no one else. Him and Soda kept me going when Mom and Dad died, and now what? Even Soda was probably sick of me by then. As I psyched myself out, the door of me and Soda's shared room creaked open.
"Hey, Pony," Soda hesitated before walking in and closing the door behind him.
"...Hey."
"Look, I ain't gonna lie to you, we all know something's wrong. You've been all messed up since Johnny and Dally died."
I wince at Soda's words.
"'m just grieving." I stated, gripping my sleeves and curling in on myself.
"Grieving my ass. You don't just get like this for two years. Two years, Pony. Me and Darry want to help, we really do. But what are we supposed to do?"
"..." I sighed, holding back tears. "Soda, are you and Darry sick of me?"
"No, kid, we ain't sick of you. We're just worried."
"...I don't believe you. Go away."
"Alright. ...I'll come get you for dinner, okay? We'll figure something out to help you, I swear to God we will. We love you, Pony."
"Okay."
As the door closed, I felt tears slide down my face. I hated to push Soda away, but I just couldn't right now. Minutes turned to hours as I sulked on. Maybe Soda called me for dinner, maybe he didn't. Maybe I hallucinated the whole thing, maybe I didn't. Maybe I slept through it, maybe I didn't. I hated feeling this way, I needed something to take the edge off. My hands shook as I dug in my pockets for my switchblade; I started carrying one on me, same kind Johnny had. I brought the blade to my wrist and cut. Then again. And again. I kept going until the room looked like a crime scene.
Eventually, I must've passed out. Once I came to, I was alone, knife still gripped in my hand. I'd always be alone, it seemed. Darry didn't want to deal with me. Soda didn't want to deal with me. Neither did Two-Bit or Steve, I was sure of it. I glanced down at the scars that were littered across my wrists, mixed in with my fresh cuts, before deciding to get up. I thought I'd just go visit Johnny's grave, with it being his birthday. Maybe read to him a bit. I brought our copy of Gone With The Wind for good measure.
As I walked, the cold air seeped into my skin, stabbing at my very core. Once I reached the graveyard, I quickly walked to Johnny's grave. I had its location memorised; going to visit it was the only reason I left the house anymore other than occasionally going to school. I flipped open the book with ease --- I had done this about a million times by now --- and began reading. I had been coming to his grave pretty often for the past two years, but I could barely get myself through the book. I remembered how life was before everything; before we killed that Soc, before we ran away, before Dally had that shootout with the fuzz... I felt on top of the world, frankly. But now, I just couldn't anymore. I didn't care if I lived another day. All I wanted anymore was to feel OK again. I slammed the book shut and ran off, feeling tears well up in my eyes. I couldn't do this. I couldn't do this. I couldn't do this.
As I walked (more like ran) back into the house, I noticed Darry sitting in the living room, newspaper in hand. Typical. Sodapop was passed out on the couch. He must've gotten tired waiting for me.
"Where the hell were you, Pony?" His eyes shot up to me.
Not again, I thought. He said that when I came home from the lot that godforsaken night, he said that when I came back from the hospital, and he's saying it now too.
"I was out," I staggered and gripped the table like it was my lifeline. "Not like it concerns you. I'm 16."
His gaze sharpened. "But you act like you're still 14." His eyes flicked down to my wrists before he averted his gaze. "You can't still be acting like this, Ponyboy. It's been two years. What'll you do once you're 18, huh?"
"You saying you'd kick me out?"
"I never said that," He started. "You need a job once you're 18. Hell, with how much you're out of school now, I'd say you should get one now."
"I can't."
"Why not, huh?"
"No one would want to hire me." I mumbled, hands tugging down at my sleeves to hide the cuts that were turning red. "Look at me, Dar. I stay in bed for weeks. I barely shower. I smell like shit, I'm sure of it."
For once, he didn't scold me for swearing. "Pony," he sighed. "Go to your room. And quit doin’ that. Ain’t good for you." He gestured vaguely towards my wrists.
I obeyed; what else was there for me to do? I walked into my room and laid down in my bed, but sleep was eluding me. Every time I felt myself slipping, every time I shut my eyes for too long, I saw Dally going limp in the lot; the look of triumph on his face, like he knew he won, the blood flowing from the bullet holes. I saw Johnny; remembered how he didn't want to die, how he wanted more out of his life, how all he wanted was Dally to be proud. I decided to get up and grab a fistful of aspirins. I was greeted by Soda, who had apparently woken up.
"Hey Pony. Why you up so late?"
"S'nothin'. Just needed an aspirin." I muttered, grabbing the pill bottle and shaking a couple out.
"Alright. You get to bed now, kid."
"I ain't a kid, I'm 16."
"Yeah? And I'm 19. You're a kid. I'm an adult."
"So why do you still live here then?"
Soda went silent at that, his brain probably working overtime to figure out an answer. "Dunno. Where else would I go?" He finally said with a shrug. "I'm dumb as rocks and I like having my brothers with me. So what?"
"So nothing. That's fine. You do you." I bluntly said, swallowing an aspirin. I would've had all of them at once if not for Soda and Darry still not knowing I took more than one whenever I took them. I walked into my room after shouting a quick goodnight to Soda.
The second my door was shut, I shoved the rest of the aspirins into my mouth and swallowed. I flopped over on my bed, suddenly feeling way more exhausted. I figured I'd just stay in bed for the next few days anyway. March was never my month. I was constantly feeling pretty low, but I always felt worse in the winter-y months, March included. I was grateful for my summer birthday in that regard --- during summer, things started feeling OK again. I closed my eyes and dozed off.
I acted like I was hopeless infront of the gang, but I felt it. A spark in me, still going after all this. After losing four people nearly back to back, I still felt hope. It almost shocked me. But I felt it. And maybe I liked it a little.
But now, while I slept, I wanted none of it. I wanted to be as far away as I could. That’s how sleeping felt. Like I was above it all. The nightmares still came. I still woke up screaming or crying every night. But I was trying. I just hoped Darry and Soda knew that.